


Pray We Are Not in Canada

by triedunture



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Action/Adventure, Animal Death, Canadian Shack, Canon-Typical Violence, Clothing Kink, Come Eating, Daddy Issues, Hair Washing, Height Differences, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Secret Identity, Sharing a Bed, Size Kink, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a botched attempt on General Washington's life, Hamilton and his commander find themselves alone in the wilderness. To survive, they must stay warm, assume false identities, find their way in a blizzard.... It's a lot for Hamilton to do all while carrying that huge torch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pray We Are Not in Canada

The circumstances leading up to the incident—wisely left unrecorded in the Continental Army's documents—were that rare blend of the unexpected and the absurd that so often followed the life of one Alexander Hamilton. He was to accompany General Washington and his entourage on a journey of some three or four hours by the most passable road to meet with a man called Julian Plock who claimed to be in possession of some British stratagems of great importance. This Plock offered the purloined letters at a price he deemed fair only if the General himself would come claim them. This stipulation, made out in Plock's missives to be simple desire to shake the hand that would free the colonies, seemed, to Hamilton, extremely circumspect. Washington agreed but would not be swayed from attending the meeting. 

"If there is even the slimmest chance that this information will lead to our success, I cannot ignore it," he said. This was a man who had ridden to the front of the line twice already to place himself between his men and the enemy's fire. Hamilton could find no fault in his courage, but surely his General should not act so recklessly off the battlefield. That should be left to someone else, such as Hamilton himself. 

It began to snow late into the journey, light and airy at first, and none of the party seemed to give it a thought. Gradually, however, as they neared the crossroads to which Plock's final letter had instructed them, the accumulation became notable. Hamilton wished he had worn a caped greatcoat on the journey, as the General and others had. He shivered beneath his uniform layers and prayed that his horse, a chestnut gelding named Gilly, was not so skittish as to balk at the minute jerks of the reins in his freezing hands. 

Plock awaited them at the appointed place. As did about a dozen Hessians, hidden along the treeline. 

General Washington dismounted first and met Plock on foot to discuss the matter as planned. At that moment, rifle fire broke out in bright orange bursts from the forest. Hamilton witnessed two musket balls pierce the cloth of Washington's greatcoat, which had flared behind him as he turned toward safety. Plock, the traitor (if he had indeed ever been the upstate farmer he'd claimed to be), lurched forward and gave the General's horse a solid smack on its rump. This sent the hapless Blueskin whinnying off in the direction they'd just come, leaving Washington without a mode of escape. Plock gave a happy shout before being cut down by his conspirators' wild bullets; at least there was one blessing, Hamilton thought vaguely before turning his attention to more pressing matters.

The ensuing chaos and heavy snowfall made it impossible to tell where their attackers were ensconced. Hamilton reined in Gilly, who had startled at the gunshots, and brought him 'round the company to Washington's side. "Sir!" he cried, and reached down with the thought of pulling up the General to share his own mount. A second volley followed, and poor Gilly was struck. The animal's piercing scream rent the snowy air as he reared up, nearly unseating Hamilton, who held his place only by his marked abilities as a horseman. 

"Colonel!" Washington was now reaching for _him_ , an exceedingly dangerous proposition, and one that Hamilton could not allow. 

"Back, Excellency," he shouted, and as his horse fell to the ground to die, he rolled as best he could from the beast so as not to meet that same fate. Hamilton landed with a thud and lay there a moment with no breath left in his lungs. He turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of his General through the haze of pain and frost, and he saw only Gilly bleeding into the snow, his fleshy tongue lolling from his slack mouth.

A heavy hand gripped him by the shoulder and Alexander looked up to find Washington's face above him. "Rise, Hamilton!" His General lifted him to his feet as if he weighed nothing, his eyes roving Hamilton's snow-flecked form. "Are you able to walk?" 

Hamilton swallowed. ”Sir, I believe we will have to run."

Another burst of gunfire sounded from the trees, and Hamilton grasped Washington by the sleeve of his greatcoat. He whirled about, looking in vain for their compatriots. The snow was falling as thick as a blanket now, affording only flashes of red and navy that spoke of Hessian mercenaries close at hand. 

"This way," the General said, and led them out of the crossroads and into the forest as fast as their feet could carry them. 

They ran through the trees as branches laden with snow lashed their faces. Hamilton could hear shouts of German behind them, but he knew not at what distance, so muffled was every sound by the snowfall and the ringing in his own ears. Soon they came upon a fallen pine so large that two grown men could easily hide behind its massive trunk, and so, climbing over it, they took refuge for a moment. 

"They will see our tracks in the snow, sir, clear as day," Hamilton panted. 

"I know." From beneath the folds of his greatcoat, the General brought forth his pair of saddle pistols, the ones gifted to him by Lafayette, chased in fine silver and gleaming in the low light. He checked the load on one and handed it to Hamilton. "Take it and defend yourself."

His fingers closed around the stock numbly. "Sir—" 

"We will give them a good fight to the last, Hamilton," he said in low tones, readying his remaining weapon. "I have not the words now to thank you for your service, but know that I do." 

"Perhaps the situation is not so grim, Your Excellency." Hamilton held up a finger and listened to the sounds of the forest and the fading German voices. Yes! He was not mistaken. A faint burble reached his ears. "Do you hear it?" 

Washington inclined his head to the north. "Running water." 

As the two were of a mind, they wasted no time nor words in leaving their precarious hiding place and following the sound to a brook too swift to have frozen just yet. "This may confuse the enemy at least for a little while," Hamilton said. "They will know we have walked within the water, but not which direction." 

The General consulted his brass compass and nodded to the northeast. "The Hessians will expect us to go south to meet more quickly with my men, but I fear we cannot rely on aid from that quarter. We will have to travel this way." 

He followed close behind Washington, both of them with pistols loaded and cocked, always looking back over their shoulders for signs of trouble. His boots not being entirely waterproofed, Hamilton found his stockings soaked through within minutes of stepping into the little stream. The sweat from his exertions cooled and became icy underneath his clothes, adding to the discomfort. His jaw he kept clamped tightly so as to stop his teeth from chattering. They must move as silently as possible, he knew. They walked for what seemed like an hour or more with only the sounds of their breathing and the click of their spurs against river rocks to accompany them. At no point did they see another Hessian, and Hamilton hoped it meant they were safe from that threat, at least. 

The snow was soft and fell in silence with no wind to hasten it. It stuck to every limb and twig to make the most unusual patterns, the entire forest copied out atop the original all in white. No life stirred in that place, not even a single bird. Hamilton had seen snow before—his first winter in New York had introduced it to him cruelly—but he had never seen it like this. All was white and white and white with only a few slashes of blessed darkness where the trunks of trees had not yet been fully enveloped. Even the sky was colored in the same wintry fashion so that his eye could not perceive where the storm ended and the Heavens began. 

Hamilton brought down his foot in a portion of the brook that proved deeper than he had expected; he cried out, stumbling forward, and the General only just saved him from falling with a steadying arm about his waist. In such close quarters, Hamilton could not hide his shivering any longer. The saddle pistol fell from his nerveless fingers into the water, no doubt soaking the gunpowder to the point of uselessness. The General released him to retrieve it and secreted both weapons away once more. 

"My god, Colonel, you're freezing. Take this at once," Washington said. He made to shrug out of his dark greatcoat, displacing the generous amount of snow that had fallen on his shoulders.

Hamilton shook his head furiously. "Sir, I must refuse. Thank you." He swayed, unsteady on his feet. 

"You would rather remain hard-headed than heed your commander and survive?" Washington fumed. 

"I am the fool who did not correctly read the skies this morning, sir, and I do not deserve a coat for that reason. Also, I am the fool who rushed into the line of fire and left us horseless." Hamilton clenched his empty hands into fists. "And I am the fool who allowed you to come on this mad errand in the first place!"

" _Allowed_ me?" the General said in a voice colored by faint amusement. 

Hamilton ignored him, staring off into the icy wood that surrounded them. The snow showed no sign of abating, and they were miles away from any hope of rescue. "I fear I have only delayed our doom, sir. Though we might not die at the hands of the enemy, Mother Nature is a different matter. There are no words to express the depth of my regret." Not the least because he had no words for what Washington was to him: how he loved and admired him, how different that love was from that which he felt for all the other men and women who captivated him. Now this great, good man would perish before their task was done, and it was all Hamilton's fault.

Washington tweaked his greatcoat back into place on his substantial frame and held Hamilton by the arm. "It is now my turn to persuade you that hope is not lost. Look." He pointed up a short, rocky cliff face, where a slender shape appeared in blessed man-made straight lines.

"A signpost?" Hamilton did not hesitate, but strode out of the little brook and began scaling the rocks with renewed vigor. "We have come upon another highway! Thank Heavens for your eyes, Excellency." 

"Let us pray the sign is not written in French," Washington said as he began to climb as well. "I would rather remain in the relative safety of New York—such as it is—than find we have walked into Canadian territory." 

Hamilton reached the top and, with a somewhat ungainly maneuver on his stomach, got to his his feet in time to assist the General with his own summit. The signpost stood before them, covered in a thick layer of frost and facing away toward the empty, snow-filled roadway. Hamilton stepped 'round it and used the sleeve of his uniform coat to clear the snow from it. A crude drawing of an owl's dour visage looked back at him, so placed for the benefit of any illiterate travelers. Below this mark was an arrow pointing east and a few words. 

"Owl's Head _Taverne_ , one and a half miles," he read aloud, and his heart sank. What a difference one letter might make! "It is still possibly not Canadian, Your Excellency. Many French-speaking trappers can be found in these remote areas. Or perhaps it is a simple misspelling." 

Washington stood beside him and inspected the sign himself with a nod. "It hardly matters, Hamilton. We must seek shelter regardless of the dangers our hosts may present." He cast his gaze up to the sky. "It will be dark soon."

"Yes, sir." They began their trek down the middle of the snowy lane, where the drifts nearly reached the tops of Hamilton's boots. He pulled his uniform coat closer about himself and tucked his bare hands under his arms to protect them. With the snow now falling at a sharp angle, he found that if he walked with his head tipped down, the brunt was kept from his chilled face by his hat brim. 

Washington, perhaps moved by the pathetic picture he created, once again offered the use of his greatcoat. Once again, Hamilton rebuffed him as politely as he could. He might die of the cold, yes, but he refused to be wrapped in the General's garment, which would surely dwarf his small frame and render him hopelessly inferior in the eyes of Washington for all time. And that, he could not allow. 

To distract his mind from the biting cold, Hamilton turned his thoughts to how to best approach this tavern. It was a problem of logic, not knowing whether the innkeeper would be Canadian or not, and, if not, whether he would be sympathetic to Washington's army or one of the King's Loyalists. It seemed the best course of action would be to obfuscate their identities to avoid capture should the worst prove true. 

Hamilton looked down at his buff and blue uniform clothing, the same cut and color as the General's. It had been at Washington's insistence that every Continental officer wore the recognizable uniform. If they arrived in such attire….

"Hamilton, take note." Washington pointed into the thick woods on the roadside. "Do you perceive a hut there, some distance away?" 

Alexander roused himself from his thoughts and squinted into the driving snow as his General ordered. A structure seemed to rise from the forest, visible only by the grace of three or four fallen trees, recent victims of the storm if their fresh splinters were any indication. "I do, sir. Shall I approach?"

"Let us both go. It may be a better option than continuing onward," he said, and they entered the woods together. 

The structure they found was a crudely made from local timbers and in a state of most regrettable disrepair. Washington lifted a length of canvas that seemed to serve as a makeshift door, and they peered inside the dark room. One section of a wall had crumbled away completely, leaving the hut as cold and inclement as the world outside. Snow floated freely between the cracks of the logs to dust the earthen floor. There was very little to be found save for a few crates stacked against one buckling wall and a low cot occupied, most unfortunately, by a corpse. 

"Heaven preserve," Washington murmured. They ducked into the small cabin and looked upon the body. The man had been dead for some time; the flesh of the face had sunken to become a leathery, grey skull, and a single tuft of white hair remained on the pate. 

"A victim of the elements?" the General wondered aloud. "Starvation?"

"More likely some swift disease." Hamilton gestured to the most damaged wall. "This would have occurred after the death. I imagine he fell ill or received some wound that festered, and once he took to his sickbed he never recovered." The wind howled through the small hut, causing the remaining walls to shake and groan with dangerous promise. 

Washington stood as still as a monument in the middle of it all, looking down at the body. "Poor soul." 

Hamilton busied himself with examining the rest of the dead man's stores and could not spare much thought to his immortal spirit. He found exactly what he sought in a small trunk. "Your Excellency, there is enough clothing here for the two of us to quit our uniforms," he said. "I could not advise sheltering here for the night, and we might attract very little attention at the tavern if we arrive in the guise of simple trappers." 

A frown crossed the General's stoic face. "I dislike employing subterfuge on principle," he said, "but...your plan is sound." He reached out then and touched Hamilton's temple, his gentle fingers coming away caked in sticky blood. "This injury, received when your horse was shot from under you— Does it pain you?"

Hamilton passed a hand over the spot himself, surprised to find it tender. "Sir, I had not noticed it. In truth, I do not feel much of anything at the moment." The cold had left him quite numb, which he knew to be a dangerous sign. If he lost any fingers to frostbite, especially on his writing hand, he would lose much of his usefulness. 

"We will have to wash the blood from you if we are to make an inconspicuous entrance," Washington said. He began unbuttoning his caped greatcoat. "Now I must insist you take this, if only for the moment." 

Perceiving his General's motives, Hamilton finally accepted the garment, which swallowed him completely from neck to toe. The fabric retained some trace of Washington's scent such that it was a battle not to press his face into the collar and breathe there. 

They walked out into the snow together. Hamilton kneeled on the ground and removed his hat, fighting the quake of the bitter cold. Washington scooped a measure of snow in his great square palms before pressing it to Hamilton's temple and neck, where it melted and cleansed him. He suppressed a shudder at the freezing sensation combined with the warmth of his General's touch. 

"I shall need to unwrap your queue," Washington said. "There is blood yet in these strands." 

"As needs be, sir," Hamilton said through clenched teeth. His General washed his long hair with snow, his large, surprisingly careful fingers combing away the crusted blood. Hamilton stayed still and thought of how glad he was that he did not use powder, for that would surely have complicated the process. He owed that fashion to Washington himself, who had eschewed wigs and such in his own grooming, leading others in his society to tend toward a more natural appearance.

"That will do," Washington said, squeezing a few drops of frigid water from the tail of Hamilton's hair. "Leave it loose so that it may dry." 

"Thank you, sir." Hamilton allowed the General to help him to his feet, and together they retreated to the derelict hut, where Hamilton returned the greatcoat to its rightful owner. 

The dead trapper had left behind hunting shirts, a few coarse waistcoats, a number of deerskin breeches, thick gloves, and various simple coats and neckerchiefs as befitted a man living in relative wilderness. The clothing proved to be a little large for Hamilton and quite small for the General, who undressed before Hamilton with the perfunctory carelessness of a career military man and found that the hunting shirt barely held together across his chest, stretched tight as it was. 

"Are you certain this is preferable to my current regalia?" Washington asked. 

"For our purposes, sir." Hamilton swallowed and turned from the sight.

They dressed themselves as best they could, then stowed their weapons, uniforms, and spurs in a burlap sack. Hamilton donned two woolen coats that would offer much more protection than his previous kit, along with a green neckerchief tied in a manner he'd observed in his younger days when dealing with traders at port. He also instructed the General, who had at first attempted to pin a neckerchief in place much like his customary stocks, which would not do for a fur trapper's garb. Hamilton assisted in tying the cloth 'round Washington's strong neck, but quickly so that his hands need not linger.

He felt much improved by the change into dry clothes and was further gratified to find a beaver-skin cap among the effects. This he placed atop his head and turned to find the General pulling on his boots over a pair of extraordinarily tight breeches. The fine shape of Washington's calves—a favorite topic of conversation at winter balls—was quite evident even in the low light. 

"Hamilton." 

Alexander's eyes whipped upward, and he felt his face heat with the shame of being caught staring. But his General only nodded to the corpse on the cot and said, "We should bury that poor wretch before we quit this place."

He recovered his wits and spoke. "Sir, even if we had the tools with which to dig, the ground here is frozen solid. I'm afraid we are forced to leave him as he was found."

Washington considered this. It was strange seeing his commander standing tall and upright as ever while dressed in the rough clothes of a woodsman. "He died in absolute loneliness, all for the want of another friendly soul," he finally said, and his voice held a note of deep regret. "We have stolen his belongings, and this sits ill enough with me. I will give his earthly remains some small measure of dignity, at least." And with that, he retrieved a grey woolen blanket from the bottom of the trunk and shook it out to its full length. He laid this over the body with a sort of tender reverence, tucking it about the dead man and covering that ghoulish face at last.

"Pray with me if you wish," Washington said softly, and Hamilton wasted no time in going to his General's side. Washington clasped his hands together but did not bring them up to his heart or lips as some might; he merely bowed his head, and Hamilton followed suit. A long moment of silence reigned while they prayed quietly in their own thoughts. 

Washington straightened. "Come, night approaches," he said, and they left the dreary ruin with their bundle of supplies slung across Hamilton's back. Washington himself carried a purloined hunting rifle on his shoulder. 

The snowfall had finally ceased, leaving the roadway a glistening white swath that stretched and curved into the distance. Hamilton pushed all feelings of pain and cold from his mind, flexing his fingers in his newly acquired gloves to remind himself of small comforts. They walked this for perhaps three quarters of a mile in silence before the General spoke. "Once we reach this tavern, what then?" 

Hamilton had been thinking on this very matter, and offered, "I shall endeavor to negotiate with the innkeeper for a horse so that we might ride south and meet the troops, sir." The term 'negotiate' was perhaps generous, as Hamilton knew they had not the coin to procure a mount outright; it was not Washington's habit to carry his own purse (having several aides who normally took on that task) and Hamilton's meager one contained a few shillings at most. The horse would have to be stolen, though he was loath to tell his General that fact. 

"We shall ride _after_ a night's rest, I presume," Washington said in an admonishing tone.

"Yes, sir, of course." Hamilton hesitated before saying, "It may better explain our presence to set out a small falsehood." He knew how intolerable Washington found deceptions. 

"What sort of falsehood?" Washington asked carefully.

"I shall tell the innkeeper, if asked, that we are father and son, recently arrived on the continent to make our fortunes in the fur trade." He watched the General's face closely as he laid out this plan.

A brief flash of pain appeared on that heroic face. "Hamilton, surely— Can we not present ourselves as brothers? Friends?" 

Ah, so the damned rumors had reached Washington's ears as well: that Hamilton was the General's bastard child begotten during his misspent youth in Barbados, and that his place in the Army was but a means of assuaging Washington's guilt. These stories were lies, of course, but it shamed Hamilton to know his General had suffered to hear them. And it hurt him still that he was to play that role, despised as it was by Washington, for appearance's sake.

"Sir, I'm afraid I would be unable to treat you with the familiarity of a friend in any convincing manner," Hamilton said, averting his eyes to the road ahead. 

"You would have my permission to do so," Washington insisted, but Hamilton stood firm.

"It is not a question of whether I am permitted by you, sir. I simply cannot permit myself."

For a moment, they walked in tense silence, and Hamilton cursed himself for speaking so freely. Yet when Washington spoke again, he made no sign that he'd divined Hamilton's true meaning. "As you say, presenting myself as a father would arouse little suspicion, given the difference in our years. If you believe this to be the best course of action, I defer to you," he said with quiet dignity. "When we are our true selves, however, know that my friendship is yours should you ever have need of it." 

"Your Excellency—" How to say the words, that this generous offer could not be accepted! For if he faltered, Hamilton feared he would lose not only Washington's friendship, but his very presence in his life. 

He was saved from the task, at any rate, as his General lifted his hand and gestured into the distance. "A light, do you see? Could this be the tavern?"

Hamilton made swift calculations of the time and distance they must have trudged thus far, and nodded. "At last. Please, Excellency, allow me to talk to the people we will find there. If they speak French—"

"Yes, certainly." Washington waved a gloved hand. "Your French will be much preferred to mine. _That_ is not one of our familial traits," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Hamilton was well-versed in the General's particular brand of humor (such as it was) and managed a polite grimace. "Indeed not, sir."

They approached the tavern at good speed, eager to be indoors. The place seemed the usual rustic type: two stories with a friendly flicker of candlelight in the windows of the first floor. As they neared the porch steps, Hamilton paused and said to his General, "May I make a suggestion, sir?" He gestured vaguely to Washington's frame. "As you are perhaps more easily recognized than most, I would recommend you change your...bearing."

Seemingly unaware of the figure he cut, Washington stood as tall and grand as a mountain and asked, "How do you mean?" 

"Perhaps—" Hamilton slumped his own shoulders forward as an example, allowing his slight stature to become even slighter. Washington attempted to follow suit and succeeded in appearing quite uncomfortable in his own body for the first time in Alexander's memory. 

"The sketches of me in newspapers are, I think, not very lifelike," he groused. "Holding myself in this manner seems unnecessary." 

"It will do," Hamilton said, too tired to think of a better solution. He mounted the small porch and opened the tavern door.

They stepped into a warm front parlor complete with a crackling fire in the fireplace. Close to the hearth sat an elderly woman, her white hair caught under a lace cap, dozing with her needlework in her lap. A man of indeterminate years—the weathered face made any guess impossible—was encamped at a rough-hewn table over a tankard of ale. The former gave them no notice, but the latter deemed them worthy of a silent nod. No other guests appeared to be in evidence, and they hung their hats, coats, and bric-a-brac on the pegs that jutted from the wall. Hamilton gestured for Washington to wait there while he went to find the innkeeper. 

He was met in the passageway by a woman wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at him in silent question, and Hamilton restrained himself from speaking first, desiring to hear from her own lips whether his French should be employed or not. 

"Have you just come out of the storm, then?" she asked in English, and Hamilton relaxed a fraction. He spoke to her cordially and in the coarse manner he'd thought he'd left behind in his place of birth, saying that yes, he had, and might there be a room available for the night? There was, said the woman, who introduced herself as the Widow Larkin. Hamilton produced enough coin from his purse to procure the room and a warm meal for himself and—he forced himself to say it without a stumble—his father. The good madam took his money and bade him rest with the others while she fetched the refreshments. 

Hamilton returned to the parlor to find his General in deep conversation with both the man and the old woman. This was _not_ the quiet, unassuming position he'd hoped to achieve in this tavern, and Hamilton _certainly_ had not planned on Washington discussing local politics with the common people tonight. And yet there he sat, all six feet two inches of him, clad in buckskin leathers and furs, hunched over the wooden table on a bench that looked much too narrow for him, listening intently as the other man expounded on his theories of government. 

"They're all the same, on that'll I swear. And if I had my way," the stranger said between great gulps from his tankard, "the Redcoats and the Continentals and all the others would give the whole thing up! Leave us in peace, I mean! And return my cows!" 

Washington nodded as if this information was of tantamount importance. "Yes, a fine point, Samuel. On the subject of cows—"

Hamilton stood at the head of the table and cleared his throat. His General looked up at him, his eyes filled with steadfast resolve to finish the task at hand. "Ah! Mrs. Cooper, Mr. Upton, this is—" This words faltered, and it became clear that Washington had not yet thought of a suitable false name for Hamilton. "My son, my Alexander," he offered with the relative smoothness of a half-truth. 

Mrs. Cooper appraised Hamilton through her spectacles and declared, "He must take after the mother. Slight thing, is he not?" 

Before Hamilton could offer a protest, Washington laughed. It was a sound Hamilton had never heard before, so he could not speak to its authenticity, but what it may have lacked in that arena it more than made up for in the way it carried. "If only you could see his brothers, John and Gil," the General said. "You would think I'd had nothing to do with the whole lot's creation." 

Hamilton suppressed the urge to run back outside into the frozen wasteland. Instead, he bowed to the lady and shook the man's hand. As Upton turned to say something to Mrs. Cooper about his own children, Hamilton took the chance to make an aside to his General. "I thought you'd seek a quiet evening, _father_ , after the ordeal we had today."

"Ah, but these good people invited me to share the fire with them and it would be _odd_ to refuse, would it not?" Washington nodded to his little bench. "Sit with me. Warm yourself; you look half-frozen." Hamilton grudgingly did as ordered. 

The Widow Larkin arrived with bowls of rabbit stew and pints of ale, and Hamilton and Washington set to filling their stomachs, which had been empty since that morning. Conversation returned to Upton's favorite topic, the war, and in the course of this discussion he referred to the General—quite familiarly—as _Philip_. Hamilton could not help but stare at Washington, wondering if he had chosen the pseudonym in reference to Alexander's own father-in-law or if was mere coincidence. Washington returned that look with a meaningful glare of his own as he tried to lead them away from the topic at hand, instead remarking on the fierceness of the weather. This prompted old Mrs. Cooper to chime in with a tale of an even worse storm she'd endured in her girlhood, and this, along with some encouraging comments from Washington, seemed to usher the evening along in relative safety. By the time the stew was finished, the lady was quite charmed by the General and the farmer seemed ready to invite him on a hunting party. 

"Shall we retire, Alexander? It has been a long day," Washington said pointedly as Mrs. Larkin cleared away their dishes. The weariness had fully caught up to Hamilton at this point, and he could barely manage a weak nod at these words. The General made their excuses to the little party and, gathering their bundle of coats and supplies, they followed the innkeeper to their room on the second floor.

Inns such as this very rarely contained enough rooms to give each visitor their own private chamber, and even if the possibility existed, it would have been unusual for two simple woodsmen to request such a luxury. Therefore, Hamilton had procured only the one room with its one bed, a modest affair on a hand-hewn bedstead. The relative smallness of these quarters was offset, however, by the warmth of its fireplace and the copper kettle that Mrs. Larkin had filled with snow so that they might have hot water in their morning basin. The woman bid them good evening and departed, leaving them alone at last.

"Well, you will never make an actor of me, Hamilton," his General said, shrugging off his outer furs, "but we carried the thing as best we could. Did you detect any hint of suspicion?" 

"No, Your Excellency." Hamilton sat on the edge of the bed and began the painful process of pulling off his boots. His feet had blistered terribly during their long trek, unbeknownst to him until this moment, when sensation (none of it delightful) returned to his body. "I believe we are safe here for the time being."

"Fine people," Washington said, indicating the floor beneath them with a tip of his head. "The Upton fellow fears war for all the correct reasons. I cannot fault him for being shortsighted, not when he has so many mouths to feed at home." He continued to strip down to his hunting shirt, that garment being intended as nightclothes as well.

Hamilton had missed the entire Upton family history and so just shook his head, too tired, for once, to argue. "As you say, sir," he said, and set about constructing a crude bedroll in front of the fire with his stolen coats. 

"Colonel," Washington said, aghast, "surely you do not intend to sleep on the floor?"

Alexander froze for a moment in the act of bundling a muffler into a serviceable pillow. "Where else, Excellency?" he asked. "The bed is yours alone." Aides and lieutenants might be grudging bedmates when encamped, but the General was always given the privacy befitting his rank. It had not even occurred to Hamilton that the arrangements could be any other way.

"Absurd." A large, square hand patted the worn quilt on the bed. "You persevered today in the face of great danger, Hamilton. You will not be banished to the floorboards for your efforts. Come, there is room enough." 

Hamilton was forced to dredge up the strength to refuse his General yet again, biting out the words as if they were poison. "If it is all the same to you, sir, I will rest here." He wouldn't even unbutton his waistcoat; he would sleep in his borrowed clothes and hear his General's breathing even in his dreams. He would be the soldier he was meant to be, for Washington's sake. 

The General stood with his arms crossed over his chest, the fabric of his shirt straining at his considerable shoulders. The garment, Hamilton couldn't help but notice, barely reached mid-thigh, which was positively obscene. "Whom are you hoping to impress with this stoicism?" Washington asked. 

"No one, Your Excellency." Hamilton bent to his task once more, allowing his loose hair to fall in a curtain over his cheek so that Washington would not see the flush there. He startled violently as a heavy, warm hand covered the back of his neck, and he looked up from his place on the floor to find his General standing over him with a thoughtful frown on his face. 

"You are still much too cold," he said. "I understand these freezing climes are alien to you." Then, in a rare moment of fancy, Washington added, "Our own hothouse flower." 

"Sir, I am no flower," Hamilton insisted before his mind could even grasp the full meaning behind the General’s words. 

Washington did not dignify this with a response, merely urged Hamilton to his feet with a helping hand. He brushed over the small injury at Hamilton's temple with questing fingertips, stroking away a few loose strands of his hair as he did so. "Please, Alexander," he said, causing a frisson to pass through Hamilton at the sound of his Christian name. It sounded so very different from when Washington has said it in the parlor only a few minutes before. "Share the bed with me." 

Hamilton wavered. His body was divided in its need: for good rest and for Washington. The entreaty held the promise of at least one. 

Washington watched his hesitation, saying, "I will not make it an order. It is a request."

A moment further, and then Hamilton gave a nod, silent and resigned. His defenses could not withstand such talk. 

"Good," Washington said, releasing him and striding about the room to snuff out the candles. Hamilton disrobed in the meanwhile, his fingers numb at the knot of his neckerchief and the buttons of his waistcoat and breeches. The General left the fire unbanked in the fireplace, sliding under the bedcovers to take the position nearest the door. Once stripped down to his own hunting shirt, Hamilton joined him in the bed and together they lay close and quiet.

"Are your hands still chilled?" Washington abruptly reached for them, not waiting for an answer, and held them between his own rough palms. He rubbed Hamilton's hands briskly as if building up sparks for kindling. 

"I am well," Hamilton said weakly. He didn't pull away from the touch. 

"Frigid," his General corrected, and brought their joined hands to his lips to breathe warm air over them. 

"Not at all, sir." He hoped the shifting light from the fire hid the deepening flush on his face and neck. 

There was a moment where no one spoke and no one moved. "For the longest time," Washington said into the small bit of dark between them, "I've thought you must despise me." 

Hamilton's hands clenched around his General's. "Sir! Never!" 

"I know, I know." That majestic head bent, and Washington placed a kiss on Alexander's knuckles. "It took today's events for me to understand. Will you not allow yourself the smallest comfort now, Alexander?"

Hamilton was so caught up in marveling at his commander's lips upon his skin that he nearly missed his words. "What sort of comfort, sir?" he finally managed in a strangled whisper. 

Washington reached an arm over him and placed one broad hand between his shoulder blades, pulled him closer until his nose was nearly buried in that great expanse of chest. He spoke low, a bare movement against Hamilton's burning ear. " _Allow_ me to warm you."

"Yes," Hamilton gasped. "Yes, oh god, yes." 

Washington's mouth pressed against his temple, his forehead, his cheek. "You say this freely?" He spoke into Hamilton's open, panting mouth. "I must be sure." 

"I could not speak more freely than this," Hamilton promised, and surged forward to meet Washington's kiss. 

There was a strange heat to his General's mouth, a confidence in the curl of that strong tongue against his own, pleasantly unexpected. A loud noise must have been torn from his throat because Washington reared back and laid his hand across Hamilton's searching lips, silencing him totally. 

"Hush," Washington whispered. "What would our host think if she heard my supposed son moaning like that?" 

Hamilton smiled, and his General, feeling it along his palm, looked at him through the darkness with tolerant affection. He removed his hand for Hamilton's answer. 

"I can be quiet, sir." He touched his fingertips to the beloved face before him, certain that he was actually asleep and dreaming. Where else but his dreams could Hamilton caress his General's cheek, rough at the end of this long day, and inhale the woodsmoke smell of his skin? It was the aroma of that damned greatcoat taken to new heights. He breathed deep. "Exceedingly quiet."

Washington laughed then, low and warm, and Hamilton immediately heard the truth in its sound and was captivated all over again. His General received another kiss as thanks for the precious gift before Hamilton's swift hands made quick work of Washington's too-small hunting shirt. This laid his General's body, an exalted mountain of a body, completely bare to him. He wrestled the bedclothes aside in his need to feast his eyes and he was not disappointed. Washington was entirely solid in every way. 

"Will you—?" The General tugged at the tails of Hamilton's own shirt, and Hamilton obliged. He had no real compunctions about his figure. It was small, yes, but finely made, and he was gratified by the sound of appreciation that fell from Washington's lips as he stripped to his skin. Then those large hands were upon him, commanding him without words, and Hamilton's frame shook with pleasure. 

They rolled across the bedsheet until Washington covered his back like a weighty blanket, his thick fingers pressing into Hamilton's hipbones like brands. The sheer size of this man! His hands might easily span my entire waist, Hamilton thought in a daze, and this prompted such a reaction in his body that he was forced to rut against the disheveled bedclothes beneath him, seeking some measure of relief. 

Washington's cockstand pressed insistently between his thighs, and Hamilton spread them like a wanton. Hot flesh slid against the soft skin between his legs with the way made easy by slick sweat. "Sir," he groaned at the sensation. 

"May I enjoy you like this?" Washington asked, coaxing Hamilton's thighs together and thrusting once into the home they made. 

Hamilton fought down the desperate whine that built in his throat, instead nodding in furious assent. The mere thought of his General finding his pleasure in the use of Hamilton's body was Heaven itself. 

"Please," he choked out. Washington seemed to take pity on him now that words had deserted his famous tongue, and he pressed the whole length of his powerful body down into him: strong and capable and heavy with need. For a moment, Hamilton feared he would be crushed, that his lungs would collapse and his heart would burst. He trained his eyes on the pillow before him and took note of the dancing patterns cast there by the firelight so as to focus his wits.

One square hand left his hip and traveled up to the nape of his neck, where it brushed aside his long hair. Washington gathered that hair in his fist, baring more skin to his hot mouth. Hamilton's breath left him once more, and he shut his eyes tightly. 

Washington must have sensed how overcome he was, for he lifted himself off Hamilton with a whispered, "Come here," and manhandled him onto his side. It was a good thing the General possessed such strength, as Hamilton was not certain he could have moved himself an inch if he'd tried. He sucked in great gulps of air as Washington curved against his spine, his great arms wrapping 'round Hamilton's chest and waist to keep him pinned where he was wanted. That delicious heat returned between his legs, and Hamilton clamped his thighs tight around Washington's dark, heavy cock. His own cockstand bobbed against his belly, glistening with want, and when the General wrapped his giant's hand 'round both it and his tight stones, Hamilton broke his vow of silence. 

Washington shushed him, a sibilant hiss in his ear, and moved to cover his mouth yet again, but Hamilton took a pair of his fingers between his lips instead and suckled at them in an effort to muffle himself. The General's approval at this was evident in his quiet gasps, the increased thrusts of his hips against Hamilton's, the tightness of his grip on his body. 

Hamilton wished to see his General's release before his own as a matter of pride. He batted away the enormously pleasurable hand on his cock and reached back to scratch at Washington's broad shoulders. His back arched into this movement, curving him both into and away from his General's heat. He looked down and saw Washington's flushed cockhead appear and disappear in the seam of his thighs over and over again. Then the General gave one final, powerful thrust and stilled. His release would have spattered the bedsheet had Hamilton not thought to cup his hand there and collect it: a palmful of hot fluid smelling wetly of salts and life. Washington's slack fingers fell from his mouth. 

"Oh, Your Excellency," Hamilton murmured, eyes fluttering shut. "We cannot leave any sign of this." 

"Of course," was the ragged response. Permission granted, Hamilton lifted his hand to his lips and lapped up the bitter drink. His General had given him a wonderful reward, and he neglected not one drop of it. He relaxed into the bed and against Washington's heaving chest, content with his lot.

Washington shifted once more and arranged Hamilton on his back. "We must see to you still," he said. Hamilton had not the faintest idea what he meant until he realized Washington was positioning himself lower, bending to the task of Hamilton's still-upright cock as if to take it in his mouth! He sat up quickly.

"Sir, no, you mustn't—" He pushed at those immovable shoulders, desperate for Washington to understand: he could not allow his General to serve him like this. Such an act would debase him, an intolerable proposition in Hamilton's mind. It should be Hamilton in that position, not _him_.

Grasping Hamilton's cockstand in hand and bringing it to his lips, Washington looked up to meet his eyes. "Remember, we cannot leave any sign," he said, and with the slightest smile, he took Hamilton into his mouth. 

A small scar, cut there by his own teeth, would remain on Hamilton's knuckle for the remainder of his life. He bit down to keep the scream of wild pleasure from echoing throughout the house, but even knowing that such a sound would spell their doom, it was still a very near thing not to let it loose. 

Afterward, when Washington had swallowed him down and wiped at his mouth with a corner of the bedsheet, Hamilton lay boneless and gasping, his eyes rolling this way and that as if hoping to find some measure of sense. Washington seemed to be very pleased at the picture he made, for he kissed Hamilton and murmured into his ringing ear, "My Alexander." 

"My General," Hamilton sighed, heedless of the consequences. He was fast slipping into a deep sleep. He felt the bedclothes fall over him, was aware of Washington's arms holding him close, and that was enough to usher him into dreamless bliss.

Hamilton woke in the morning with his head pillowed on Washington’s chest, which rose and fell with his gentle breathing. He lay there for a moment to savor the sound, the smell, and the sensation of it all, and then he forced himself out of bed. He heated last night’s snow over the embers in the fireplace, dressed in his stolen clothes, and poured some warmed water in the washbasin with which to splash his face. Hamilton eschewed a more thorough washing; he still carried his General’s scent, and this pleased him greatly. 

The tavern was quiet and dark as Hamilton descended the stairs. The innkeeper and the others appeared to still be abed. Hamilton took his chance and crept out the front door and into the snow, searching for the stables. He found them at the back of the property and headed that way, his feet breaking through the fragile tops of the snowbanks as if it were a burnt cream’s crust. The door was unlocked, and Hamilton flung it wide. Four horses were lodged there. Hamilton examined them all and determined a bay stallion to be the best mount. He was considering whether he might also avail himself of the dappled grey or share one horse with Washington when a shadow fell across the stable’s threshold. Hamilton turned and cringed to find his General standing there, dressed again in his dark greatcoat and rough clothes, their bag of supplies carried on his shoulder, and looking very disappointed. 

“Tell me we are not also horse thieves now, Hamilton,” he said. 

“Well, sir….” 

Hamilton drew toward his commander to better state his case, but before he could defend his decision, he saw something over Washington’s shoulder that made the decision moot. A Hessian approached from the treeline in a scarlet and blue uniform, his horse as white as death. Seeing them, the mercenary halted, squinted at them carefully, and tilted his head in thought. Hamilton froze, his eyes wide. 

“What is it?” Washington started to turn to look at what had arrested Hamilton so, and, seeing that noble profile at last, the Hessian reached for the rifle slung alongside his saddle. 

There was no time for words of warning or a shouted threat. Hamilton reached inside the folds of Washington’s greatcoat and his fingers closed around the saddle pistol there. Praying that this one was loaded with dry powder, Hamilton aimed at the Hessian and fired, tearing yet another hole through Washington’s garment. The Hessian clutched at his chest and fell from his steed, dead in the snow. 

It had all happened so quickly, Washington only now saw the danger that had been upon them. “Excellent shot, Colonel,” he said after a moment. 

“Thank you, sir.” Candlelight began to flicker in the windows of the tavern, and faint shouts could be heard from there and the woods. Hamilton tucked the spent weapon back into Washington’s waistband and nodded toward the now-riderless horse. “This one will do, I think. We must go quickly.” 

They rode in tandem after all, Washington at the reins and Hamilton sitting close behind. “Hold fast to me,” was all the warning that Washington gave before spurring the beast to furious speed. More Hessians poured from the woods now to give chase, and Hamilton clung tightly to his General, his arms locked around his waist, so that their leaps and dodges through the forest would not unseat him. Musket balls whizzed through the air in a great volley. Hamilton looked ahead with great interest; the gunfire had not come from behind them, but in front. “Sir,” he shouted above the wind, “our men have come!”

Buff and blue uniforms appeared on the ridge ahead, aiming for the ranks of Hessians that pursued them. With a German shout, the mercenaries dispersed; Hamilton watched over his shoulder as they scattered and ran. 

“Monsieur Lafayette,” Washington’s voice boomed. Their horse slowed to a stop and Hamilton perceived his old friend standing there with a hand on the hilt of his sword, looking up at them with clear relief. 

“General! And our little lion! We have been searching for you. Thank Heaven you are safe.” He seemed to take note of their unusual garments then, his eyes widening with a particularly Gallic horror. “My god, what are you two _wearing_?” 

“The story is a long one,” Washington said. “Come. I must return to camp at once.” 

Lafayette looked unconvinced that sartorial topics were unimportant in the grand scheme, but he bowed to the General’s orders regardless. “Of course. The storm has slowed both armies, and you will want to hear what has happened in the meantime. Shall I find a horse for Hamilton?”

“No need.” Hamilton’s grip tightened on his General. “Let us begin without delay.” 

The rest of the party mounted and they set off with Washington and Hamilton at the front of the line. Unseen by the men behind them, Washington gathered his reins in one gloved hand and placed the other over Hamilton’s, which lay against his own belly. “Do you feel the cold, Alexander?” he asked, soft and low.

Hamilton swallowed and spoke truthfully. “Not today, Your Excellency, though that is likely all your doing.” 

“You must tell me if you do. I will attempt to preserve your life as you have mine,” Washington said. “Always.” 

Allowing his forehead to rest lightly against his General’s broad back, Hamilton gave a happy snort. “It’s a pact, then,” he said, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Can I thank [Poose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/poose) enough for taking a couple of looks at this? No, I cannot.
> 
> If you'd like to share on tumblr, you can reblog [this post](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com/post/139128127047/pray-we-are-not-in-canada-triedunture-hamilton). And yo, thanks.


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